I was taught to divine for water,walking the earth and seeing with the eyes of my feet.Here,dry.Here, a small stream.And here, a rush,the witching rods cross—gallons per minute flow unseen beneath my feetin an otherwise unremarkable corner of a field.

December has opened a fresh well of grief.Here,broad and deep.

In the wind through the bare winter trees—In the patter of snow on fallen leaves—In the thrum of water below the earth—the whisper of your name.

Over and over I dip down into the cool, dark watersand drink.

Where are you in your grief now? Do you go looking for it? Do you drink of it?

glow in the woods

Bereaved parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion, and the other side of getting through this mess called grief.

Parents of lost babies and potential of all kinds: come here to share the technicolour, the vividness, the despair, the heart-broken-open, the compassion we learn for others, having been through this mess — and see it reflected back at you, acknowledged and understood.